The Process

Tag: poem

Welweteen Anchor

I came to a definition

Of euphoria yesterday

In a momentary lightness

In my back

 

I knew

 

I carry all questions

In a cavity in

There

 

Sometimes

 

The cavity empties

 

That levity:

 

A body’s mass

Is supposed to be weighted

Flesh, bones, organs, the like.

 

Yet this

Estimated thing I

Have come to know–cavity

 

Going from dense

Clay to warm

Void in a moment

 

Gravity is acting

On it not

Known mass

 

In an instance of

Drinks in an instance

Of sex or

Being perceived as making

Sense or held or

Escaping, bending

Id-ward or helping or knowing

Truth I

 

Could drift up and fuck

Off from the prison of my

Ponderings, prostrate analogies

I could know

 

By any sense sensing what occurred

Near my body and not

 

Not know it

As I so normally don’t

 

As I’m engaged in

Parlance with a loam

Thick with askings and

Riddles regarding fairness,

Ethics, and imaginings

 

And I like it yet

The loam is

Connected to my skull and

Nourishes it the same

Way welwet does a buck’s

Antlers,

 

Causes him to become

Hewn or pointy or instinctive, able

In his maturity or

Wholly stagnant, stale, or irrelevant,

 

Waste of existence,

Miss the point?

Banana Pudding Tequila God and Heaven

Any responsibility I have to a self is shredded wheat cake and disassembles in the presence of most liquids: most think of milk but anything//
salacious bodies lie on the gum-tarred sidewalk and flap fish-like in search of
orgasm, a veil dropped behind the eyes rather than lids

maintains decorum within, without is dissolved and on display for passersby
who wouldn’t bother anyway–the body could be a corpse or a tree or a box.  Doesn’t
matter.  The sticky sweatpants will affect almost nothing.  My pillow talk

is of being dead in the ground without the interest for something more.  The third rub
on the lamp evoked a thick smoke that dried the wheat, almost set fire to it: a body that said euthanasia should be available on grocery store shelves.  What if your child…

“yes, it’s sad.”  Community of frigid underlings?  Underlying?  Outlier?  Interred?  Flung out or even strung out in the cosmos, one toe in Earth’s atmosphere, dipping it, buying milk and naked?  Seven layer dip served out of a guy’s head while he sits on the cement,

loafers and shorts, maybe lost a job or found Valhalla in a urinal: many will win, few will enter?  I am reduced to the powder at the bottom of the bag but consider that a step

toward firmness and the construction of sap to amber, while I trap you transparent, beetle, we might’ve been syrup but now head toward jewelry, ornament exhibition tomb.  From what I understand, the choice of death quick and cozy could be taxed.

In Loving Memory of my Bowl Cut

When I try to explain myself, I remember being a child, watching the hips of teenagers spilling over their pants on Rehoboth Beach, wanting them for myself and also for myself. To figure out which, I don’t know how: this was before I learned to hate this body and when I didn’t know it wouldn’t grow to be a man. The gentle hanging of fat from down the back of a thigh: it was ideal? Inhabiting myself is a dream in which I’m on and off lucid, committed and then quickly realizing this couldn’t be true, wouldn’t.

Your mom is a haiku

Once in a while you’re

off on a Friday.  It seems

likely you’ll get run over.

6

At night we argue until I decide to spend the next day cleaning the house, and what I do is hire someone else to do it while I clean the crevices in my teeth, because I thought I smelled the dying person smell on them, because my agreement was to become gone as soon as the old breath happened in this life, and it’s too early as just the other day I got home first and was alone and the cats were out because they’re not here and I was shocked and disabled by my solitude and as a result shocked and upset at the inability to be around nobody, not even fur balls and skin balls with legs, and I walked around and around and laid down and was forced to go inside my own body, which I rarely have to do.  She got home a few minutes later, and I could come out again, and I didn’t have to stare at my own hands anymore; I looked at her, because I like to, and she is not me.  Today we drank coffee and ate pasta and I put on an alpaca hat and scrubbed her skin in the shower because I had already washed my hair because I had gone to the gym to exercise in vain, so vain, because I know I will be stopping soon and have so much more weight to gain than to lose, because that is usually the case for most people, and there’s a long way to go until the opposite is true, and this concept forces a person to realize This Fat Ass is the smallest version of itself left in this lifetime, and that forces a person to befriend it or even to just stop dreaming of looking like a skinny Asian or white man.  The hat in the shower got damp, and I figure my hair smells a lot like a barnyard animal, which is probably gross to everyone around me, which is no one, so it’s alright.  And I worry, a little, about the cleaning person coming in, because I hope it brings its own soap and stuff, and paper towels, too, because we are out.  But when I was four, my babysitter washed my brother and sister with shampoo in the bath, and she told me it was the same thing as soap, and she was right, and I liked it, and to this day it makes me think anything is transferrable, like any glue, and my girl says there is shoe glue to glue shoes back together and ceramic glue to glue ceramics back together, and the only ones I knew were Gorilla and Elmer’s and the two questions are “why are so many things breaking?” and “if shoe glue is for shoes and ceramic glue is for ceramics, then is Gorilla glue really for gorillas, or do gorillas just trump everything, and if part A is true, then who is Elmer, and is he fine?”  But I’m more worried about talking to the cleaning person, because I am not supposed to leave it here alone, in case it steals all my broken shoes and ceramics.  I don’t know where I’m supposed to hide while it cleans, so I chose not to have my bed made so that I can use my bed as a private island.  Can I tell the person that the private bed island is sound proofed?  Does the cleaning person supervisor role allow me to get drunk on the Isle of Bed while the person is there?  Do I have to give it a drink if I’m having one?  Should I  offer it a snack?  Should I get cash for a tip?  Can it use shampoo to wash the floor?  Is it voting for Trump?  I’ve eaten 6 slices of turkey and some poofy but not puffed Cheetos today.  My dad said he eats canned beans and broccoli for lunch, and I agreed with him that sometimes I just eat food that barely qualifies as it in the name of energy or even health, such as the time I ate mainly chickpeas out of the can for days because of poverty but actually because of being lazy and disgusting.  But if I want to get something with good flavor in it, I will have to go quickly in case the cleaning person gets here too early while I’m flossing and listening to Patti Smith and breaking and glueing and having sore muscles that make me want halal food which is so delicious.  And my sister wants to talk on the phone–and that is what I’ll do!  I’ll Skype my sister so that I can ignore the cleaning person!  And she can watch me in case it is secretly a killer on the loose and that way she will have all the clues!  I like it, I like it a lot a lot.

Crawling Back Up in It

The dimming is

good.  Most days, I want to be alone in a dark

bar for hours but when I have the day I take its

sun and shit.  And walk and sit and breathe and think

about the dark bar and when I go

in I’ll want this and when I stay, I’ll want this, and

I want then I want then I want and want and the bartender

dims the lights and I think it’s OK the way I am.  I come

into my skin and I’m hidden and shown and unassociated and

disassociated as are the rest of the people.  I think

about American Horror Story the Hotel.  I think about Lady Gaga.  I want to know why we all need somewhere safe.  It’s just a show; this is also just a show.  And that’s a reason to not think so much.  The guy forgets he goes to the hotel; he forgets

he’s a killer.  We wash it down down

down and forget also; we are at home and then we exit

dark and we strap the faces and costumes and shit tight tight and that’s that.  Rather than

stay. |in the hotel they were ghosts| I were was am

out and the rules in the sun, oh the rules, but the sun feels possible–wants me to?

People and Dead Wine

All the directions are just to continue.  Veering is fancy.  Do we just
?  Continue for 17 miles.  Colder, now it’s warm.  And it’s white
out.  In the house, we talk about the winter season and the not having
people.  My fairy wine unicorn says a shitty restaurant in town serves grandma food.  The sausage
man says hauw dayer jshou eensult grondmazher layk zhat?  Grondmazher is vanderfahl.  Unicorn’s husband served us meatballs last night; he learned to cook from a mother who didn’t want him to burden a woman.  Grondmazher is vanderfahl.  And the unicorn had served her husband a tuna sandwich with two cabbage leaves, and he said, “you could kill a man like that.”  It’s all stories to say between rows of vines.  We’re looking

out.  The sudden chill will freeze the buds on the vines, and there may be no grapes this year.  My mother and I think on it and later in the day drink a bottle.  Will there be wine?  Maybe cider.  I think about the diaper smell of fermenting cider I once harbored in my room.  And then of the winery smelling like diapers, and it made me sad.   The sausage

man is yelling about zhe preezon ghard, his wife.  I cant evuhn fahrt weezhout hehr purmeesshun.  We are smirking.  We are laughing at all of this; we continue.

Cups

She says now that we live together, we have too many cups between the two of us and that we need to pare down.  I say the Brady Bunch didn’t jettison their excess children when they joined up. She says it’s different because children are different from cups.  I don’t know; I like my cups.  A lot of the glasses are specific to traditional service of various beer styles, so I want them.    Some of them are dumb.  Like the printed pint glasses.  But you always need pint glasses, is the point.  She tells my mom what about the Kinky Boots souvenir cup from the theater.  Mom guffaws or does something that might be in the guffawing category.  I am judged.  I shift in my shoes thinking they’re right.  But I went to that show.  It happened to me.  And I paid like eighty-five dollars for a cocktail at intermission.  Their faces say I’m a fool for nostalgia but that they love me anyway but also will ultimately coerce me into abandoning the cup.  It is plastic, and I know that’s not right.  But I like it.

This morning, when I woke up for work, I moved my pillow to find my phone and turn off my alarm so as not to disturb.  My pillow brushed my favorite rocks glass off my nightstand onto the floor, where it shattered into many pieces.  It had a blue old-fashioned bicycle on it.  I don’t ride bikes, but I’ve made some good drinks in the glass, and it reminds me of cold, proper cocktails.  Well, that’s one down, then.  I really don’t mind it when my things are gone too much.  I just like them while they’re still there or I think I do.

I Spoke to this Strange Man

The other day on my way home from work.  I was walking.  He couldn’t find Pace University, and I directed him, even though I wasn’t really sure where it was.  Sadly, I had prompted him in the direction I was walking.  I said OK have a good day.  He said thank you but kept stride with me and asked me what I do in the area.  I said I live here, which made me think maybe that was a not great answer but then I realized this is Manhattan and I’m an adult and he doesn’t have candy or a car or anything good and is probably old enough to take down or outrun.  We have a conversation, which chips at me some.  His son is a freshman.  My siblings are sophomores in college.  We say things about things.  He has to turn right, which annoys me, because it takes a lot for me to talk to anyone, and I’m in the middle of a sentence.  I feel life is a rude thing.  But then I’m glad to stop talking again.

The next day, I go home on the bus.  A tiny Asian boy throws up bile on the floor, and as I’m sitting in a sideways seat, it slowly inches toward my shoes.  I watch it.  I don’t want to get bile on my shoes.  His mother is doing a bad job of wiping it up, because she is starting in the middle of the bile trail instead of at the front of it.  I feel this is unjust, so I don’t move my feet, because I don’t think my life should be impacted by this vomit.  It’s not mine.  It isn’t anyone’s I belong to.  And I win.  My stop precedes the impact, and I leave.

This One Day That Happened

It was the morning, and I woke up feeling bad.  Not bad bad, but a few steps to the side of right.  Some dream, it must have been.  She says, “what’s up,” and I say

“Nothing.”

We drink coffee and I look for the off feeling and don’t know it yet.  The kisses are good but outside my windshield at times, which annoys me, and she asks “what are you thinking about?”  My dog.  He was so good and sweet, and then he died.  I saw him die.  His sister died, too, and I miss her on the forefront, because she was most recent, but I go back for him, because of how he was and how it all happened.

“Nothing.”  We kiss more and more and it gets me outside myself some.  She knows how to unfurl the muscles and lay it all out on white, how it takes seismic roughing and brightness in the dark, and that’s how I bring myself into today, thank the lawd, as it goes.  The lawd.  lol.

We get in a car to bring things to Goodwill, because she is paring down.  I still can’t combine myself with these minutes, so I lay down on her lap…Jib had been laying on a vermillion towel in our backyard, and he was tired.  Finally, his tongue curled out of his mouth, like forced its way out, and he let out a low moan that sounded like Snoopy.  And then he shit a little and that was it, and he was so stiff.  It was liver cancer.  Later, I would run around my grandma’s yard with his little carbonized body in my fist, dropping some here and there, where he liked to roll and scratch his back in the crab grass…My eyes get teary, but as it happens when you’re on your side, all the crying comes out of the bottom eye, save the one tear on the top side, so she doesn’t know I’m doing it or gives me the dignity by not asking, which as we know makes it real and creates more crying.  I say something random about something my sister was doing at work to dam it up, and she says a joke about something else, and I laugh.  We get out to go to the store.

Everything second hand makes me nostalgic for people I used to know or never even knew, which makes me realize I’m just in it today and that it will just be a cloudy day parade.  We leave the store and go to a vintage poster store, and we look at Life magazines from the 1930’s.  I say, “Can you believe how irrelevant we will be in one hundred years,” and that makes me feel a bit bad but also relieved, and I already knew it, but it’s good to remember sometimes.  Scarlett O’Hara.  She doesn’t know about how people are riding around on single wheels with gyroscopes inside them right now, and we don’t know about the things that will come.  Like later that evening, after dinner, when we ramble into the sex store, I say, “they will laugh about strapping it on with a belt one day,” and we laugh about it, and I laugh because I turn around and she’s buzzed on cider and finger banging a pocket pussy with the clerk nearby watching, and it makes for a good scene.  I like a good scene, because mostly I just want everyone to laugh.

As we walk to the train, I think about his little ashes and it opens up the stomach a little, because it’s something that won’t leave me today, even though it was a good day.  And actually the better the day, the worse it is for the fact of the departure in store for all of it, but it’s so nice to hold hands, and we are going to watch the Rocky Horror Picture Show and drink red wine.